The Choices
by Garek
Summary: Five years after the events of season 6 finale, Carrie seems to have it all - new life, new home, Franny happily living with her, new friends. But, some years ago, she made a choice. And now, the horrific secret she has been keeping and the double life she has led, are threatening to claim all she holds dear.
1. Chapter 1

"Got your lunch?" Carrie held the passenger door open with one hand, waiting for Franny to climb out of the car, and searching for her lunch box with another. "Here you go," she finally fished it from somewhere under the back seat and pushed it into Franny's half open school bag. A smile touched her lips as she looked up into her daughter's half-closed eyes. She cupped girl's porcelain face in her palms and laughed, "No more late-night picnics on the carpet for you…"

"Mooooommmm! I'm _fine_!" Franny protested and threw one of the bag straps on her shoulder.

"Sure… sure…" with a surrendering gesture Carrie pulled her in for a nose on nose rub. She looked deep into her baby's bright blue eyes and pressed her brow to the girl's. "Besides, I had A LOT of fun."

Franny smiled and threw her arms around her mother's neck. "Me too."

Carrie turned her head to the side to bury her face in thick auburn locks and took a deep breath. Just a little longer, she thought, as she did every day, as she did every time. Just a little longer. She was safe. She was happy. Franny was too. Been for a long while now. And yet the need to always make it right, to always say it out loud, to always hug a little longer… that need never went away. You never know, she told herself over and over as she fell asleep every night, as she kissed her baby girl goodnight, you never know if it's the last chance you get to be there, to say it, to touch her. You never know. And regret is a never-forgiving dull blade in your heart. And it makes you bleed slowly. So slowly, that, even after five years, you can still taste it in the back of your throat. Regret is a black hole and she had been living on its event horizon for too long.

"Mom, can I come tonight? With you and uncle Max?" asked Franny in a sweet innocent careless tone, as she pulled away and was now inches from Carrie's face. "To the memorial?" she added, as if explanation was needed.

Painful twitch jerked Carrie's chin. Her eyes welled up and she took a deep breath, holding back tears. She started to say something in return but no words came out. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and pulled Franny into her arms again.

"I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry…" started Franny, but Carrie stopped her.

"It's ok, baby. You didn't do anything wrong," She took Franny's face in her palms again and smiled as bravely and calmly as she could manage. Her voice was now steady and reassuring. "I think it's ok. If you want to. I mean, of course, it's ok. I think Peter would have loved it very-very-VERY much."

"Yes. He would. I know he would," Franny nodded several times in a very convincing manner.

"Alright, then," Carrie sat up and put her left hand on a wheel. "I'll see you after school, bug," she winked and leaned in to close the passenger door.

"Mom?" Franny, who already started towards the entrance to the school, turned around and ran back to the car, holding the door. She climbed back in her seat and turned to her mother.

"What is it, sweetie?" Carrie softly put a hand on her arm.

"Can I tell you something… about Peter… and you won't be upset? Promise you won't be upset?"

"Oh baby…" Carry smiled and strokeג her daughter's hair. "You can tell me ANYTHING! What is it?"

"When Miss Christine asked me if I was afraid… You know…" she looked down at her hands, nervously wrinkling the folds of her school uniform skirt, "when I was in the bathroom with Latisha. And Peter was outside. And people were yelling and sirens outside… and I WAS afraid... and…"

"Oh, sweetie, I know…" interrupted Carrie, trying to pull her into a hug, but Franny moved away.

"No, mom, it's just… She asked if I thought I was gonna die," she said in such low voice that it was barely a whisper. She looked away and stared for a second before looking up at her mother's face. "And I said that yes, I was. But I wasn't. I mean I was. But… I wasn't afraid of Peter. I was afraid that he would die, because there were so many people outside yelling and all. And I thought if he died, I would die too. Because he couldn't protect me if he died," her crystal blue eyes glistened with tears now and she allowed Carrie to wrap her arms around her. "He asked me if I knew I was safe with him. And I never told him. I never said anything," she was sobbing now.

"Shhhhhhhh…. Shhhhh…" Carrie rocked her from side to side and whispered into her ear. "Oh, my dear, he knew. Of course, Peter knew. You were his friend. Friends know things like that. Oh, my sweetheart… is that it?" she lifted her daughter's wet face and kissed the tears on her cheeks and temples. "Is that why you want to go today? Do you feel you made Peter sad?"

"A little…" Franny nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Oh, my baby… I am so sorry," Carrie traced the tips of her fingers across Franny's cheekbone and tucked rogue hairlock behind her little ear. "I should have talked to you about it a long time ago. You know you can talk to me about Peter any time, right? Or anything that upsets you?"

"I thought talking about Peter made you sad," murmured Franny, looking away. "It always did. It makes you cry."

 _Jesus. Oh, dear god_ , thought Carrie, fighting her tears back, as she pressed her lips to the top of Franny's head. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't before she was absolutely sure that she was in control of her voice, that she pulled away and looked into her daughter's eyes.

"Of course, it does, baby," she smiled sadly. "Peter was my friend too. And I miss him very much. But I am also very proud that I got to have such a good friend. Even for such a short time. And I am always-always glad to talk to you about Peter, alright? And if it makes us sad, it's ok, too. Because loosing friends is sad. So, promise me you will always talk to me about Peter when you feel like it?"

Franny nodded with a little hint of a smile. "I promise."

"Ok then," Carrie pulled out a tissue paper from a bag on her dashboard and wiped Franny's eyes and face. "Off to school with you now. I will see you real soon, ok?"

She watched Franny sprint away towards a group of chattering and giggling classmates. She wanted to stay here a little longer, lost in this moment of serene tenderness. But then, she couldn't afford to. Carrie swallowed hard and adjusted her rear-view mirror. As she was pulling out of the drop spot, she opened a window and drew a deep breath. She was almost there. After three years of work, she was about to close that chapter once and for all. She didn't give much thought as to what they would do next. They would probably go away. Move as far from here as possible. And start anew. And she would never look back. And maybe, just maybe, she would finally be free.


	2. Chapter 2

The air, flowing through the open window was cool with a hint of chill. But the sun was high in the sky and it spilled gallons of yellow light on the school building, pavement, grass and trees. Everything around her was so full of life. Life, that went on. Days flew by, then months and years. She noticed how cold and shaky were her hands. She wished she could say _it was this day._ But it was every day.

Her past life was long gone.

She had new friends and she kept in touch with some old ones. In the end, she thought she did it. She got out. For good. She kept herself busy and she made herself happy. Her dreams got better with time. She stopped seeing the exit from the parking garage of New York hotel and waking up screaming, as she felt the jolt of dozens of bullets hiting the armored SUV. She stopped seeing him, pale and bloody, his head fallen to the side, his eyes closed forever. His lifeless face, finally looking so peaceful. So goddamned peaceful. She stopped dreaming that she was running through Berlin metro tunnel, her flashlight lost, creeping darkness around. She never seemed to remember how she got there, but she would always know what she was looking for. She would wake up still calling his name. Soaked with sweat. Paralyzed with terror.

Months went by, but tears didn't come. She felt that if she started crying, _really crying,_ she would never be able to stop. Ever. Because, how many tears was he worth exactly? How many tears would be enough to mourn that life?

Her past life was long gone.

Two years passed and her dreams changed. Breathing was easier. Getting out of bed in the morning made more sense. And smiling became less of a challenge. And now (and it had been for some time now) she dreamt him walking up to her. In a supermarket, in a parking lot, at work, in a park… All of a sudden, she would see him walk towards her - his back straight, his face shaven, his hair short, his left leg and arm undamaged. And he would smile. And she wouldn't be surprised. Because, for some reason, in that dream he was never gone. She would wake up from this dream and stay still for a while. Holding on to the feeling of blissful escape from regret and emptiness, which shadowed her days. She never remembered what else happened in the dream. Just the image of him walking towards her. And for a tiny moment, just before the reality would assert itself as she'd fully wake up, on mornings like this, she would feel truly, incandescently, breathtakingly happy.

But her past life was long gone.

As an analyst, as case officer, as station chief, she always had to answer to someone. Not anymore. Not since one day, when Franny was at a sleepover, she took out the key for the little room upstairs, unlocked the door and stepped in. The white board was clean. On the little corner table there was a box with colored strings, some scotch tape and pins. She tore in a piece from the scotch tape and held a photograph to the top of the board. It was an old one. Not the best one, too. But she didn't care. She attached the photograph in the middle of the board at the very top and stepped back.

 _"All right," she said, placing her hands on her hips and stretching her elbows behind her back, "I really need you to turn off that 'light-on-the-headlands- beacon' thing of yours for a while, Quinn. I'll be heading for some rocks now. And I need you to let me. "_

She remembered now, how in that moment something changed inside her. And she knew it changed forever. Just like that, the dull pain in her chest was gone completely. Her mind became cold and rational. And she could almost literally see all that was tender and fragile about her memories of him dissolving into the past. If there was an actual threshold, separating the light from the darkness, that moment was when she stepped over it. And she never looked back. A part of her welcomed the darkness and felt almost at home. In the gloom of her darkest thoughts she felt his presence. As if, unescapably, she was always meant to follow him there. She remembered _knowing_ that this quest would claim her life. Such as it was, anyway. She never expected to find closure and move on. She knew how it would end. All she wanted (needed, really) was to rain hell on the heads of people responsible.

Her therapist (what a disaster THAT idea was) told her once, that, as hard as it was to believe, eventually and inevitably, she WILL get past the pain and she will find comfort in her love for Franny. That grieving was a storm, that people had to wait out. _Right,_ she remembered thinking, _because I am SOOO good at waiting out the storm._

But she did try. For two years she lived the _moto-fucking-shit_ of 'taking one day at a time' and 'concentrating on everyday tasks' and 'spending more time outside' and 'limiting the times she was alone with her thoughts'. She might had not been a super-mom to Franny, but she never gave up on trying. And on that front, she really did ok. Well, maybe 'ok' for someone who clearly had no business becoming a mother in the first place.

Was she thinking about Franny, standing in front of her strategy board and swearing to avenge his death? Carrie knew the answer was simply – no. She had tried for two years. And, boy, had she failed. That life had to go. If they ever had any chance for some normality, if there was even a glimmer of happiness for her little dysfunctional family, she had to shed the last nine years and bury the remains. She couldn't bring him back, true. But she _could_ and she _would_ make this right. Well 'right' might not had been the proper word for what she was doing. On the other hand, what was _ever_ right about the world they both lived in? It took some time, but she finally realized, that she wasn't grieving. She didn't go through denial or bargaining stages. She was being consumed, eaten alive, by guilt. All things unsaid, all actions not taken, all chances missed… they hunted her dreams and her waking hours. Until her guilt turned into rage. Her pain burst into hatred, white and hot, and it burned a hole where her heart had been.

It took her over a year of relentless work and sleepless nights. No agency resources, no team, no friends. She would be damned if she risked one more life. She had to do this one on her own. She ran her own investigations and installed her own surveillance equipment. She traveled all over the world on her own time, carefully planning her missions to coincide with her work trips. The white board became a story. The story developed characters. The characters got names. Locations. Pictures. She was thorough, as never before. And she didn't care if it took ten more years or twenty.

When it was time to move forward, she didn't hesitate. She slept well the night before. She woke up in the morning and drove Franny to school. She made plans for her to be picked up by Max, as she did every time when she had to travel for work. She got on a flight to Milano and slept through it. When she stepped behind her first target in a dimly lit restaurant bathroom and took a Glock with a silencer out of her purse, she didn't feel anything. He seemed genuinely surprised and caught off guard for a trained operative. His eyes widened slightly, when, zipping his pants, he turned around to find a beautiful woman in short cocktail dress standing behind him. Carrie raised the gun to his forehead and fired. He went down like a deflated bag. She stepped over him, opened the door, placed an 'out of order' sign on the doorknob, and walked away. She remembered wondering if that was what Quinn felt, crossing off names on a kill list. Because she felt nothing. Her walk was steady, her smile genuine, as she rejoined her date at their dinner table. " _Desert?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm._ One down. Sixteen to go.

The next day she was back home. One of the characters in her story had been written off. She crossed over his picture with a red marker, but left it on the board. She raised her eyes to Quinn's picture on top of the board and felt a wave of nausea squeeze her stomach. He would have hated this. He would have hated _her._ He would have dreaded the person she had become. But then again, he wasn't too fund of the person she was before, either. And she was, as always, too late to change his mind. _I have a friend,_ she recalled her conversation with Otto, _Peter Quinn. I didn't take care of him. Not like I should have. Not like he took care of me._ Well, she was now. She looked at Quinn's face again and raised her hand, barely touching the tips of her fingers to the paper.

Her past life was long gone. And so were so many things that she once held dear. The darkness had her now.

Carrie parked two blocks from her office and checked her watch. She had a little over 5 hours. It seemed symbolic that the last one would be dealt with on this day. She didn't plan for it. But it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to think about it. This one wasn't even a challenge to get close to. She already made contact and set up a meet. He agreed immediately. He had known her for years. The others were taken out assassin style: she'd get in, deliver the blow and walk away. If anyone was trying to make a connection between their deaths, it would lead nowhere. But this one was different. She _will_ look him in the eye and he _will_ know what he is dying for.

A phone ring startled her into a violent jerk. "Jesus…" she muttered and swiped the answering button across the screen. "Hey, Max. I was just about to call you."

The voice, coming from her Bluetooth speaker was more than skeptical.

"Sure, let's go with that theory. Are you coming in today? We got a call from Meyer's Pharma. They sound interested in drafting a preliminary contract."

"That's fantastic. Thanks for handling it, Max. I owe you, really."

"You do. Big time. So, you on your way?"

"Not yet. Need to pick up some stuff from Jerry and meet with Jenkins&Porter in about an hour. I'll pick some lunch and we'll talk when I get there."

"Sounds like a plan. How's Franny?"

"Just dropped her off at school. And Max… if you _ever_ give her ideas like the carpet picnic again, I will make you bleed. Slowly. I barely woke her up this morning."

"I never agreed to do it on a school night. That one is on _you,_ Carrie."

"You have a point," Carrie laughed, "Listen. Franny wants to join us tonight. Do you think we can meet somewhere less…" she was searching for the right word.

"Boozy?" Max suggested.

"Well yeah. Can you think of some place and let everyone know?"

"I'll take care of the logistics. Don't worry. I have an idea."

"You're the best. See you at noon."

"Hey, you still want me to have a look at Franny's computer?"

Carrie raised her eyebrow, "Didn't you fix it already?"

"Mmmmm no. Was gonna do it tomorrow."

"Well, she said it's working fine again. So, I guess there's no need."

"Have you been cheating on me with another handy man, Carrie? First your fridge gets mysteriously better, then your backyard camera, then there was your front door lamp, now Franny's computer. All just fixed themselves?"

Carrie scoffed and pulled up her shoulders, "What do you want me to tell you? I guess they just glitched. But hey, my garbage disposal is shorting again. You're welcome to it, _handy man._ "

She heard Max laughing, "I'll fix it tomorrow. Ok. Give me a call when you're on your way to the office. I'll have Frank draft the contract for Meyer's."

"Deal. See you soon, Max," Carrie pushed the end call button and removed the phone from the dashboard cradle.

She walked several blocks down the street. The silver Toyota was parked exactly where her contact said it would be. She passed next to it, without stopping, and pushed the remote unlock button twice. She heard a click of doors being unlocked and locked again. She was all set.


	3. Chapter 3

Saul Berenson left the building and turned into a park. He had been pacing nervously all afternoon and it was helping no one. He considered picking up the phone and contacting the man in the field several times, but thought better of it. Five years of planning were about to go down the drain and that wouldn't even be the worst of it. Contacts blown, assets killed, retaliation under way… he could name a few more in the long list of repercussions a clusterfuck like this would cause.

They lost four targets and two newly recruited assets over the past year and a half. And, if his contact was correct, it was just a tip of an iceberg. Someone had been working against them, taking out people deep inside their operation scope. It took them awhile to connect the dots and realize those were not random killings. Someone was systematically taking out those people. And, although, a connection between them was not clear to him, he knew better than to think it wasn't there. In fact, he spent the good part of the last year trying to establish that connection, hoping it would help them identify an uninvited player, whose brutal game had threatened to compromise the biggest operation of his and Adal's career. Whether that person (or _persons_ ) knew and were sabotaging their efforts intentionally, or was there a different play in place, it had to stop and soon.

The last thing he wanted (and that being the last thing was a _huge_ underestimation), was to risk his best operative by bringing him back to the States. There were many reasons for that, the main one being that the guy (natively unstable to begin with) had a tendency to be severely destabilized, while in close proximity to certain… distractions, _let's call it 'distractions'_. And God knew, that any distractions at this stage could mean the difference between achieving the goal they set over five years ago, and a disaster of unconceivable proportions. But they have trailed some loose ends back to their own back yard, and there was no ignoring the fact, that their problem either originated or, at the very least, had extensive operational base in the United States.

So, three weeks ago, with a heavy heart, he gave the order. The same order he had been dreading for five years. His asset flew in on an uncharted private jet. He handed him a burner phone and pocketed his old one.

 _"Minimal contact," he said, as they walked to a rental car, both silent most of the way. "And…" he put a hand on man's broad shoulder, "welcome home."_

To cut the long story short – they found nothing. Not even a movie stamp (seeing how their latest casualty had been taken out in a movie theatre garage with a car bomb). The amazing Houdini left virtually no trace. And there was still no feasible connection between assassination. And, like all intelligence officers, that bothered Saul more than anything at this point. That, which he could not understand. He was missing something. His mind took him back to Carrie Mathison's apartment about 10 years back. _"Something happened to him here. Big loss," she said, referring to a period of almost no activity on Abu Nazeer's timeline._ He wondered what made him think of that day over and over again. Maybe, because when something doesn't make sense logically, you have to look for a deeper, more emotional connection. Like 'big loss'. But whose loss? And a loss of whom? Saul felt like he was falling deeper and deeper into Rabbit's Hole.

They had very little to go on. But, luckily, they had it on good authority, that the very people in the center of their operation (ultimately better equipped and with larger resources), had been looking for the same Houdini. After all it was _their_ people being taken out all over the world. As much as Saul would have liked to have the motherfucker mastermind in 'a room' for some chat, the importance of stopping him from ruining five years of work tramped all at this point. So, ultimately, the decision was made and they leaked. Since the information they needed to get across had little value to anyone but the interested party, they had to leak it as a part of a bundle. Along with some more valuable information, which did cost them. Nothing they couldn't handle. But nevertheless. It was done by an actual hacker. Who was now, understandably, in jail. Along with a guy responsible for the data security in one of their local stations in the Middle East. It took less than an hour from the moment the data appeared on WikiLeaks and the first report from their source. While the world was busy discussing the atrocities of CIA operations on American soil and legal repercussions of it, the _real_ reason for the leaked files was fast at work in tracking down their elusive triggerman.

Saul reached the fountain and took out the burner phone. It rang once and was picked up.

"Nothing yet," he heard a clear low voice on the other side of the line.

"Damn it," Saul looked up and drew a long breath. "We are out of time."

"Not yet. They are getting close. The info was good. It seems they have enough to go on now."

Saul sat down at the edge of the fountain and felt the water seep through his pants. He was too distracted to care.

"You should have let me handle this," he heard the voice on the phone. "We wouldn't be in this mess."

"I shouldn't have asked you come here _at all_. Let alone run around gathering intel. Besides, this is too risky for us to get involved in. We're not even supposed to _know_ about the assassinations. If we start lurking around and figuring out who's behind them, our asset is blown. It's absolutely vital that they believe it's their mess and deal with the motherfucker on their own. Plus, it will give our guy an extra edge, figuring this out."

The man on the other side of the line considered his words.

"Right," he said finally.

 _Fucking mercenaries,_ thought Saul. In the nine years that he had known the man, he barely heard him make a statement consisting of more than three short sentences at a time.

"I need you out of the country by the end of the week. If we don't close it by then, we wrap it up and tie the ends."

"Right," the man repeated with the same detached voice.

Saul heard a sound of something metallic hitting a hard surface.

"Where are you?" he asked immediately, tensing up.

The man he was talking to, sat on a kitchen floor in Brooklyn apartment, in front of an open cabinet doors under the sink, surrounded by tools and parts, and holding a schematic for the garbage disposal in his left hand.

"Around," he answered. _Plumbing school_ , he wanted to add, but thought better of it.

Saul exhaled loudly and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and kept them closed.

"I warned you not to make contact. You _promised._ "

The man got up from the floor and dusted his pants. He walked up to a refrigerator and stood there for a long moment, looking at the pictures under colorful magnets. His favorite was the one with the color balloons. He couldn't help smiling every time he looked at it. He wished he could keep it. He even took a picture of it with his phone once. But deleted the moment he got into his car. He had taken his own pictures too, watching from a safe distance. And those, too, would be gone by the end of the same day. Couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk _them._

He was still holding the phone to his ear, just standing there and moving his eyes from one photo to another.

"I didn't," he replied finally. Because it was true.

Saul dropped his head and shook it from side to side, "You made me promise I'd look after her. And I did. I made sure she didn't get back in. Not even when she wanted. I needed her help and I never reached out. I stayed close all these years to make sure she kept out of trouble. Like you asked. So, don't you dare go and fuck this up now. She is happy. And she worked very hard to get there. You have _no right_ , do you hear me? _No right!_ "

The man looked at the pictures again. She _did_ look happy. They both did.

"I was just fixing the fucking garbage disposal," he answered after a long pause, not sure if he was talking to Saul or himself.

"I see. And the front door lamp? And the backyard camera? Do you think Carri Mathison is an idiot?"

The man considered the question for a second. His pale blue eyes darkened with deep concern. He was never the one for letting go. Five years or three decades.

"No, I don't think she is an idiot," he said after a long pause. "Which is why I'm sure she wouldn't figure a dead man fixed her f-fucking sink."

Peter Quinn pushed the end call button, put the burner in his back pocket, gathered his tools and turned on the garbage disposal. It was purring like a kitten. He turned it off, flicked the light switch, walked out the back yard and reset the looping image on both security cameras.

Saul was right. He should never had come there. And he swore to himself, he never would again.


	4. Chapter 4

5 YEARS EARLIER

The first time Peter woke up was when he felt a violent jolt. Something, on which he seemed to be carried, slammed loudly against another hard surface. The siren went off, and the ambulance (he figured as much) started moving. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were filled with led. And, when he finally managed to widen them a tiny crack, it was all a blur. He tried to focus, but people were moving too fast. They were doing something to him. Touching him. He felt pain everywhere. _Would they STOP poking already?_

"Hey, I think he opened his eyes," he heard woman's voice. A face came into his view. Did she have blue eyes? All he could make out was colors. And a bright light. Right into his eyes with a flashlight. _What the fff…_ "Sir, can you hear me? Can you say your name?"

He started saying _Peter Quinn_ , but he couldn't hear his own voice. He felt his lips moving, but not really the way he wanted them too. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and it made him gag repeatedly. Someone forced opened his eyes one after another. The flash light again. _Do these people have no shame?_

"Pupils equal and reactive to light," he heard the same voice speak very close to his face. "Sir," he felt a soft slap on his cheek, "Sir, can you open your eyes again?"

Peter gave it a try, but his muscles didn't work. He was very cold. Shivers made his pain worse. And it was very hard to breath. He felt sharp pain in his left chest every time he would draw in air. And after each breath, he had this violent urge to take another one. There was not enough air. There was something on his face. It smelled like new plastic. He raised his hand and tried to remove it.

"Wow-wow-wow…" he heard in response, and the plastic thing was back on his nose. "You need the oxygen, sir. Don't take the mask off. Jake, what's our eta? We might need to tube him. The sats are down to 85 with rebreather."

Sirens. Loud voices outside. No air. There was not enough air. He was choking and he couldn't take enough air in. He felt the muscles tighten around his throat and around his chest. He never thought breathing took so many muscles. He tried very hard, but it wasn't enough. One breath led to another, and another, and another… and it wasn't enough. He had to get up. To sit down. To get out. He needed more air.

"Trachea shift to the right. BP is down to 75 palp. Sats are 68 and dropping. It's tension pneumo. Get me an IV set," Peter heard a man's voice, rising above the equipment noice. Then he felt a sharp pain in his left chest and a loud hissing. He drew in a deep breath. "Damn, he's bleeding everywhere. Sats are going up... 78… 81… I think it's a flail chest. What a mess. Get me number 8 tube and some tape."

Peter felt someone's hands on his face. "Sir, I am going to put a tube in, to help you breath."

He managed to open his eyes a tiny crack again. "Carrie," he tried to say, but no voice came out. His throat felt like it was stuck in a middle of steel press. The hissing of the oxygen mask made his voice inaudible. "Carrie," he repeated, when the mask was removed and he saw a man, right above him, leaning over his face from behind, "Is Carrie Mathison ok?"

"Please try not to talk, sir."

Last things he remembered was a sharp pain in his jaws, as someone thrusted the back of his cheek bones forward, and a cold sensation of metallic blade in his mouth. Then it was back into darkness again.

The second time he regained consciousness, he was outside. The sky above him was dark and he could make out some stars. It was very cold and he was covered with layers of blankets. There was a loud noise. Not sirens or people. It was mechanical, rhythmical and very- _very_ loud. _Helicopter pad_ , he figured. His breathing was easier, but it felt weird. Every time he took a breath, he felt air being pushed into his chest. It made him want to cough, but, as he did, something started beeping loudly next to his ear. He tried to move his head to the side to see what it was, but his neck was firmly strapped into cervical collar. There was a machine to the right side of his head. It made clicking sounds and with each of them he felt air pushed into his chest. _Portable ventilator_ , he guessed, _Fuck me._

People around him were basically screaming at each other, to make their voices rise above the noise of the helicopter blades.

"He needs surgery. He is not stable for transfer," yelled one of them. He was dressed in green scrubs and a heavy coat on top of them. Probably an ER doc.

The man he was talking to was tall and slender and wore merely a suit. In this cold. Peter would have had recognized him anywhere.

"He will have surgery," Adal yelled back. "But not here. We're moving him now."

"You will be releasing him AMA. And that's not just against medical advice. You're really risking him not making it to… wherever you're taking him," the doctor insisted, gesturing to something behind the gurney. "He has three chest drains that are filling fast. He needs blood transfusions and immediate surgery."

"He will get both," Adal put a reassuring hand on doctor's shoulder. "This is Chris Jason," he pointed to another man in a dark suit, standing nearby. "He will come with you and take care of the forms. We gotta go."

Peter couldn't make out the rest of the conversation. The helicopter was too loud. He saw the doctor leaving with a man called Chris Jason. Then his gurney started moving.

"Wait," he started saying, but his throat hurt from the effort and no sound came out again.

Dar Adal came closer now and saw that his eyes were open.

"You can't talk, Peter. You got a tube in your throat."

He started giving instruction to the transport team, but Peter grabbed his arm with his right hand and pulled him closer.

"Carrie," he moved his lips in a silent plea. "Is Carrie ok?"

"Peter, I can't hear you. And we really have to move."

Peter squeezed his hand so hard, it made him slightly bend his knees and scream out. Peter's hand opened his palm and Adal felt his finger scratching something on his skin. He looked down. Half a circle. Another half a circle. Over and over again. He looked at Peter's face again and saw him trying to raise his head, his blue eyes opened wide, demanding answers, his lips silently moving around the breathing tube. He leaned closer. His ear was almost touching Peter's mouth. He didn't hear a sound, but he could make out distinct clicking of two letters.

"C...r… C…r…"

"Carrie? Are you asking if Carrie is ok?" he screamed over the helicopter noise.

Peter squeezed his eyes, saying _yes_.

"For God's sake, Peter!" Adal angrily shook his hand free. His face still mere inches from Quinn's. "Yes, she is fine. Kean is fine. They are _all_ fine," he turned to the medic. "Give him a sedative already, will you?"

Peter blinked several times and looked straight ahead. His eyes tearing from pain. His head dropped back to the gurney.

Dar firmly grabbed his face and leaned closer.

"You know what?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I wish she wasn't. For once, I wish she didn't make it out. I have been scraping bits and pieces of you from more continents than most people get to visit in their life time. All in the name of Carrie-Fucking-Mathison and her missions. Every time you just have to rush head first into another mess of hers."

He stopped talking, but remained close. His hand on Peter's face. His eyes dark with genuine anger.

Peter felt dizzy. The sedative was starting to take effect. His eyelids grew heavy, but he forced them open. He raised his head again, giving it the last of the strength he had, looked deep into Adal's eyes and made sure his lips were easy to read this time. "FUCK YOU," he mouthed, and it all went dark again.


End file.
